


Unjust Desserts

by saisei



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Forced to Watch, M/M, Nonconathon Treat, Other, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-15 18:02:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19623529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saisei/pseuds/saisei
Summary: Ignis is stuck in a pit with a new type of flan, and all Prompto can do is watch.





	Unjust Desserts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fizzfooz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzfooz/gifts).



All the evidence, Prompto thinks, points to it being some kind of flan that's got Iggy. It went for the guy with no light, their weapons were as good as useless against the thing, and it had that nasty squishy feel to it, rubbery, like the fat on tough meat. It smelled, too, like burnt sugar.

But as far as Prompto can tell the thing is invisible. He's trying to name it in his head – Invisiflan? – when Ignis darts in and then suddenly, bam, both of them are gone. For a long, still moment Prompto wonders if it turned Iggy invisible as well, but then sense reasserts itself. People don't vanish in these dungeons, but they do take nasty tumbles into pits. He's been in a few himself. Never good.

He trains his light on the ground and creeps forward until he finds the section of floor that's given way. The good news is that the bottom of the pit is paved, which means it's a room, which means there's got to be a normal way in. The bad news is it's a three meter drop down, and Ignis looks pretty fucked up. Both his legs are twisted and probably broken, and he's not making any move to stand. Or any movement at _all_ , except for – Prompto checks – the pained rise and fall of his chest.

The only good thing Prompto got from his bastard of a father was excellent hand-eye coordination, and it's a gift he's grateful for every day. Right now it means he can grab curatives out of the Armiger and throw them so they hit Ignis right in his middle. After each one he gives Ignis a ten-count for the magic to work; he's going to get hell later for quote-unquote wasting them, but so long as Iggy's alive and yelling, Prompto refuses to have regrets. They've been together now for what, going on three years now. He's not about to let Iggy suffer if he can do anything about it.

After the third, Ignis coughs and curls onto his side to spit out a mouthful of blood. He must still be hurting if he's okay letting Prompto see that; normally he's the kind of person who crawls away to lick his wounds in private. Prompto's all set to figure out how to get down there, when he realizes he forgot the invisible flan.

Ignis remembers, though, and he's got a spear in one hand and some kind of spell in the other even though he's too weak to get up yet. His shoes and visor got knocked off in the fall, and Prompto can see his eyes moving out of habit, even though he knows Iggy's relying on his other senses to warn him of an attack. He gets out his gun as well. If he can figure out where the flan is, he can do his level best to kill it.

Ignis turns, sharply, and swings the spear; not a strong strike, but Prompto's pretty sure he only uses the blow to pinpoint the flan's location. When he meet with resistance, he unhesitatingly throws the grenade, unleashing elemental fire on it.

And on himself, Prompto realizes with horror. The grenade hits the flan and only explodes while it's bouncing back, and Ignis hadn't calculated for that. He twists to the side a moment too late, his clothes already going up in flames. He reacts with Ignis-like grace and speed, dropping to the ground and rolling, smothering the fire with his gloves where he can, but Prompto can tell he's freaking out. Probably the smell of singing hair and skin has thrown him back into memories of Altissia, and Ignis isn't thinking clearly. He strips off his shirt so fast the buttons tear loose, even though only one sleeve is smoking, and then shucks his pants and gloves off as well, running his bare palms over his skin to check for damage.

Prompto wants to be down there with him _right the fuck now_. He hates having a front row seat to Ignis losing his fucking mind. He's not even grievously hurt, objectively speaking – from what Prompto can see, the burns aren't bad enough to need another potion – but he's vulnerable, scared, and alone, which are three things Ignis should never be.

They passed a utilities room maybe a hundred meters or so back, which had ladders and pipes going down; Prompto knows he should just run and try to get to Iggy as fast as possible, but he's terrified of all the things that could go wrong if he left his lookout. At least up here he can cover Ignis' back, or try to – though he realizes, so suddenly he gasps with horror, that he's been watching Ignis when he should have been keeping an eye out for the invisible flan, and now he has no idea where it is or if the attack slowed it down. How's he going to warn Ignis? Some boyfriend he was.

He's shining his flashlight over the whole room looking for any sign of it when Ignis suddenly thrashes. Or kind of mimes thrashing, because the fucking flan has dropped right on top of him, pinning his arms and legs starfished-wide, either meaning to crush him or smother him or – 

Prompto knows he's going to have to shoot it, and with one deep breath he pushes all the Prompto parts of him aside, all the terror that he's going to have to watch Ignis die in pain, and gets a gun in hand. He thinks of this as his MT mode. It sucks and he hates it, but it also helps. He puts two bullets through what he guesses might be the flan's head, and he doesn't let himself care how loud or scary that must be for Ignis; it has an _effect_ – the flan must pull back some, because Ignis can breathe now – and that's all that matters.

They'd all thought of daemons as video game monsters for ages. All daemons do is walk and kill. They don't talk or play or eat or sleep, and they certainly don't feel love or seem to take any kind of comfort in each other's presence. Like the gods, they just _are_ , and no amount of logic or reasoning can explain _what_ they are.

But now they know daemons – some of them? All of them? – are made from infected people and animals, and that's next-level horror. It means there's a possibility any given daemon could possess, deep down somewhere, the knowledge of how to hurt someone in a very human way.

It takes Prompto a moment to put together what he's seeing because his brain just doesn't want to believe what it's being told, but he thinks the flan is trying to fuck Ignis. He can more-or-less make out its appendages, from where he can see Ignis being held down, but there's definitely something happening between Ignis' legs, like he's being battered with a huge dildo until his body finally succumbs to the assault.

Ignis makes a horrible high-pitched wail when it enters him, a mix of rage and agony that give Prompto goosebumps all over. Prompto flicks his light between his face, contorted in pain and red, and his ass, where the flan seems to widening as it pushes in. From what Prompto knows of jelly-blob daemons, they can push out limbs in a nubby way, but don't ever go full-on tentacle. Still, Iggy he can only be stretched so far before he breaks. Prompto shoots it again, this time in where he assumes it has arms and legs. He'd shoot its damn dick-like-appendage off, except he worries he'd hit Iggy in the balls.

But the momentary jelly-shudders that go through it give Ignis an opening, and in a flash of magic he skewers it from either side with his elemental daggers. Even though he's got shitty leverage and little range of movement, he manages to drive them in deep and then cut ragged slices, his left hand forcing the blade down and the right dragging it up; suddenly, parts of the flan are frozen solid, and visible, like ice.

The flan retaliates by flexing the massive limb it shoved up inside Ignis; whatever it was before it became a daemon – human or beast – it must have learned to equate sex with dominance, intimacy with subjugation. It's trying to fuck Ignis into submission. Prompto is furious, and enraged, and terrified for Ignis, who loses his grip on the daggers under the assault. He's not so much writhing, now, as convulsing, and Prompto can see blood staining his thighs. That tips him over the edge; he refuses to be a bystander watching Ignis be torn apart any more.

After that one disastrous time he nearly blew up their tent in Leide, Prompto's been banned from using elemental grenades. But he's positive Noct will forgive him. Fire didn't do anything to slow this flan down, but ice seems effective – thanks, Ignis, for testing that out – so Prompto grabs one from the Armiger. He aims the first for the space between Ignis' legs, where even if the grenade bounces and rolls it won't freeze Ignis' head solid, which would be bad. Healing magic has to have limits somewhere, and Prompto's not going to test them by turning his favorite brain into an ice lolly.

The grenade detonates more-or-less how Prompto predicted, and he sees the flan stiffen and solidify into an icy lump. He waits a few long, long seconds to make sure that it's definitely motionless, and then he's on his feet and running as fast as he can for the ladder. He makes himself climb down carefully – two broken legs in a day is still way over quota – and then runs again when he reaches the lower level, begging Noct under his breath to take mercy on them from wherever he is, and to lead Prompto to Iggy.

He makes one, then two wrong turns, but he figures it out fast, and then he's in a wide corridor that where he can hear an odd tock-tock-tock sound up ahead. He arms himself but keeps running. When the corridor enters a room, he thanks Noct and all the Astrals, but mostly Noct, because there Ignis is, daggers in bloodied hands, hacking chunks of frozen flan off the mass that's pinning him to the floor.

"I got this," Prompto says. He repeats himself a moment later, closer but out of dagger-throwing range. "Iggy. _Iggy_ , it's okay."

He's very sure nothing about this is okay. Ignis is pale and his lips are blue, there's blood pooling on the floor, and the part of the flan that was up inside Ignis is still there, but frozen solid. Parts of Ignis are gruesomely iced over as well.

"Let's get you free, okay?" Prompto says, MTing his head and forcing himself to think of this as a puzzle. "Can you put the daggers away?"

Ignis is shaking too hard to reach for the Armiger, but he forces his hands open and the daggers fall for Prompto to collect and tidy away.

"I'm going to pull you out from under that thing," Prompto tells him. "It'll hurt, I'm so sorry."

Ignis nods, one convulsive jerk of his head. The ground under him is rough; Prompto's going to scrape him up, on top of everything else. He grabs Ignis under his armpits and is shocked by how inhumanly cold he is. Ignis tries to pull his knees up and push with his feet, but his movements are weak and uncoordinated. All signs point to not good at all. He braces his feet and starts yanking.

He gets Ignis mostly free, except for the Astrals-damned giant ice dildo that is wedged so deep that he's going to rip Ignis apart himself getting it out. He's pretty sure the thing isn't truly dead, just flash-frozen; it hasn't turned into ash, but he's grateful for that. What better way to get daemonified than to have the Scourge dumped right into open wounds?

Ignis seems to be thinking along the same lines, because he steadies one hand as best he can and grabs something from the Armiger, laying it across his chest. A phoenix down.

"Cut it out," Ignis says, through gritted teeth. "Don't worry about me."

There's no idea Prompto hates more. He gives a couple more hard tugs, really putting his back into it, and nothing happens.

So he picks up a dagger and does what has to be done. It's almost like the flan had been trying to pour itself inside Ignis; the mass inside is way bigger than should be possible to accommodate. Ignis' insides are a frostbitten mess, and Prompto has to keep reminding himself that MTs don't do feelings. It's just a job; his heart isn't literally breaking or anything.

By the time he's dug it all out, Ignis has gone from the faint spasms of dying to being really and truly dead. Prompto hopes another few seconds won't make a difference. He drags Ignis over to the corridor entrance, out of the puddle of blood and away from the flan, and whammies him with the phoenix down.

While Ignis is on fire (again) and gasping himself back to magically-restored life and health, Prompto collects all his stuff and shoots the flan until it's nothing but chips and shards. Their smaller surface area makes them thaw quicker, and he sees some of them start to disintegrate. Good. Prompto never wants to deal with that flan again.

Ignis is healed up, but Prompto knows from unpleasant experience just how woozy and clumsy the reviving process makes people. Kind of like being drunk, in a way. Good thing Ignis has Prompto, then.

As he's helping Iggy step into his underwear – his pants are gross and stink of smoke – Ignis breaks his silence to announce that he's not to be trifled with.

Prompto's eyes roll all by themselves, because that? Is such a terrible play on words. He wonders if Ignis thought up stupid puns while he was being raped, using them to keep his grip on sanity. Knowing Ignis, it's likely.

"I'll get that put on a t-shirt for you," he promises. He's got his arm around Ignis' waist for balance, so pressing against Ignis' side is easy. Ignis lets him rest his head on his shoulder. Prompto can't stop looking around them, compulsively shining his light at the darkness, hoping not to see anything staring back. He doesn't know if he should say something – if bringing it up would fuck Ignis up – but he decides to go for it. Mr Don't Trifle With Me already opened the door to the conversation. "I guess sometimes I take your strength for granted. You're one of the strongest people I know, and I love you. You're comfy to lean on." He loses control of his voice for those last few words, and has to take a steadying breath. Ignis has gone still. "That was... bad. So, so bad. I just. I'd be honored, if you needed anyone to lean on, ever – for anything – I'm here. For you. Always."

He blinks hard, once the words are out, and Ignis stands straight, moving gingerly; not as if he's still hurting, but like he can't stop remembering the hurt. Prompto's declaration is messy and incoherent but also so honest he feels utterly transparent. Bad metaphor. He shivers. It's bitter cold down here. He grabs hold of one of Ignis' hands and rubs it between his own. Ignis would never complain, but the chill has to be getting to him, too.

There are new scars on his fingers, from the fire and from fumbling with frozen fingers for his daggers. He needs a shirt. They need to get out of here.

"Would you say it again?"

"I love you." He's not sure that's what Ignis is asking; it's a shot in the dark, but he's good at that.

Ignis sighs, so faint Prompto probably wouldn't have heard except he's right up in Ignis' space. "Thank you."

Prompto tells himself he's not allowed to cry until after Ignis does. Instead he pinches the side of Ignis' hand; not hard enough to hurt, just to get his attention.

"Of course I love you as well."

"Oh," Prompto breathes out, " _of course_." Normally he'd follow up with a kiss to Ignis' cheek. It's one of their stupid little rituals, collected over the years. Ignis will notice if he doesn't go through with it, but he won't say anything. Maybe he'll tell himself that what happened changed how Prompto feels.

That would be horrible. Prompto settles a slow, lingering kiss like a talisman right under the edge of Ignis' scar, and starts steering them toward the safety of the haven.

By the time they arrive, Prompto's getting used to Ignis' unnatural tense silence. He's probably listening for threats just as much as Prompto's looking for them, and besides, he already used up his one really good ( _terrible_ ) pun. He's just done for the day.

When they arrive, the first thing Prompto does is to fill a bucket with water and grab a washtowel. In his hands, Ignis is terrifyingly limp and passive. He lets Prompto wipe him down head to toe, scrubbing away blood and other crusty nasty stuff. Ignis' hair is a ruin, so Prompto has him lean forward so he can comb out all the singed parts before rinsing it clean. Ignis doesn't even seem to care when Prompto explains, with worry, just how short it is now in places. Well.. all right, then. When he judges Ignis is as spiffy as possible – in a dungeon and under the circumstances – he hands him a towel and backs off.

He's filthy himself, and the sooner he doesn't have Ignis' dried blood up to his elbows the better. He remembers way back when they'd just left Insomnia, and Gladio tried to get everyone involved in the art of butchering the animals they killed. Prompto had barfed for like a whole week, and had nearly become a vegetarian, except Noct threatened to disown him.

 _Astrals_ , he misses Noct. None of this would have happened if Noct was there. He'd have warped down and protected Ignis, and they wouldn't have had to use up so many potions, or the phoenix down. Cell phone reception is nil this far underground, but Prompto bets Gladio's going out of his mind with worry, watching their supplies diminish, wondering who's been so badly hurt. Who was _killed_.

With giddy hysterical black humour, Prompto finds himself almost grinning. He totally murdered Ignis. He bet no one saw _that_ coming.

"If you're done," Ignis says, and gestures with the towel. He isn't even pretending to look in Prompto's direction, even though he's usually fastidious about maintaining the illusion of being sighted. After a moment, he adds, gently, "Come here."

Prompto finds that funny, too, even as he lets himself be caught and thoroughly buffed dry. He suspects Ignis is checking him over for injuries, which is – well, ridiculous. Prompto's fine. Nothing was done to him. He was trapped and useless, which hardly deserves the intimate way Ignis touches him now or the relief that drains tension from Ignis' face and posture. As if he was worried.

About _what_?

"Come to bed," Ignis says, and Prompto lets himself be led forward one pace before he recalls himself. Even in this dark place he has the advantage of sight, and Ignis is going to fall over the bucket if Prompto doesn't course-correct him.

"This way," Prompto says, steering, and Ignis allows him to take charge. He's glad he'd let Gladio bully him into bringing a tent and sleeping bags. While he knows the haven is safe from daemons, he wants to be able to zip them into a small warm bubble and pretend they're safe and well.

He guesses Ignis feels the same, because as soon as they're inside he reaches for Prompto with both hands, running his hands over his chest like he's trying to pat down invisible jacket pockets or something. Finding his bearings, maybe, or trying to remind himself that Prompto is there. Unharmed. Prompto's not sure if he should touch back; if that's welcome or not. Ignis was very desperately tactile – behind their closed door – after Altissia, even when the slightest touch in the wrong place was agonizing. Even now his scars are still sensitive, and Prompto wonders what it was like for him to be on fire again.

Ignis doesn't talk about things like that, and Prompto doesn't know how to bully his way through Ignis' defenses like Gladio can. Then again, he doesn't want Ignis to be furious with him, either. Gladio can take it. Prompto's better at, well, _this_.

Covering Ignis' hands with his own and bringing them up to cup his face; turning his head to kiss each palm in turn; letting Ignis slide one hand to the back of his neck as he leans in and kisses Prompto slow and sweet and so expertly that he feels warmth kindling in his toes.

Prompto supposes this is compartmentalization of a sort, or possibly repression. It probably isn't healthy, but he's fine with letting Ignis make love to him. He can stop thinking (much) about Ignis being raped, or Ignis dying and dead, when he has his arms full of Ignis sweat-damp and swearing, yanked back from the edge of yet another orgasm. He likes making Ignis wait, and wait, and wait, because all good things come to those who wait, right? And that's everything he wants for Ignis.

After Ignis is finally allowed to come, a good twenty minutes past Prompto's own earthshaking orgasm, he's sound asleep even before he finishes shaking to pieces in Prompto's arms. Ignis has a light, graceful way of moving, but he's a big guy made of solid muscle, and Prompto has to shove him off so he doesn't get crushed.

There's no way Prompto's going outside again tonight, so he strips off a pillowcase and uses that to mop up before slinging a possessive leg over Ignis' and snuggling in. He doesn't set an alarm; he figures one or both of them will wake up screaming soon enough.

He makes a vague resolution to develop healthier coping mechanisms, which he'll undoubtedly fail at, and closes his eyes. Ignis is still breathing and so is he. He can work with that.


End file.
